Gunnysack Goose for Christmas
by aragonite
Summary: A Victorian Christmas...of sorts. What's any Christmas without the in-laws, or the demands of work versus a holiday...or for that matter, the dreaded random factor? No horrible waterfowl were harmed in this fic.
1. Chapter 1

_OK, folks, I ran into a story that was so funny that I had no choice but to pound it, make it unrecognizable, and then make it my own. I also just want a flimsy excuse to play with a Victorian Christmas._

Christmas was coming. The goose was getting fat—or however that song was supposed to go. After so many years of hearing it sung wrong, badly, and mostly hummed, Inspector Bradstreet wasn't certain what the original version was now. Some wag with more humour than sense had stuck male and female hollies all over the building, and donations from the grateful public were trickling in, pastry by pastry.

He was circling a pot of rosemary festooned with an improbably red bow on top, when Inspector Gregson popped his pale, square face from around the corner. He met Bradstreet's eye and shook his head vigorously.

"He did it." Gregson announced. "There's no doubt about it."

Bradstreet groaned. "Even Sherlock Holmes can't be that callous." He met Gregson's expression belatedly. "Well, perhaps."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have family," Gregson pointed out. "Why would he think of family?"

"Oh, Lord." Bradstreet paused to lean his head back, pressing his still-gloved hands to his face. "Bad enough he doesn't recognize holidays on any calendar printed in English! Why did he ask for Lestrade anyway?" He wanted to know. "Lestrade _hates_ the countryside!" If that wasn't too simple a word for the feelings engendered in their little comrade whenever the concept of wide open spaces came up.

Gregson shrugged. "Something to do with the fact that this bloke has been arrested before, by Lestrade, numerous times in the past. I suppose he thought Lestrade would like to be present when they got him?" Even as he said that, he winced. "Well, perhaps because Lestrade knows how the scum thinks. After fifteen years of arresting him, how could he not?"

"And all he has to do is miss out on half of Christmas with his family." Bradstreet said darkly. "That just makes all the sense in the world."

"Shh, here he comes." Gregson nonchalantly whirled to his tea-pot.

Lestrade whisked in with his usual energy, shedding grey London snow from the brim of his bowler and shoulders. Someone had waylaid him before the station; he tossed a parcel of baked goods at Bradstreet. "Happy Holiday, Roger." He said in passing, and added over his shoulder: "I _think_ it's poppyseed puffs."

Bradstreet peered gingerly into the paper sack. "Could be," he said doubtfully. "It has a bit of a lemony smell, doesn't it?"

"Roger, you moron, either Lestrade missed the telegram last night or—"

Gregson snapped his jaws shut, _click_, as a string of words normally heard just down-stream from Billingsgate flowed out of Lestrade's office. Caught between the pincers of horror and bald-faced admiration, everyone within the large, audible radius paused to give a rare art form the attention it deserved. The telegram, crumpled to a mass, went sailing out the doorway.

"Oh, my god." Gregson's pale face had turned prawn-pink. He blinked feverishly. "I know what some of those words mean."

"So you _did_ work with the Gipsies in the past, I _thought _you were lying about that too..." Bradstreet sighed, and bent over to pick up the offending telegram. A new hand entered his line of vision; a hand with a handsome onyx ring and a matching cuff-link. Heart sinking, Bradstreet slowly straightened to look into the face of the Yard's new Commissioner.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade, not knowing the true consequence of his paper projectile, and already slammed the door shut and was probably skulking at his desk, rooting in the drawers for the nearest image of Sherlock Holmes and a sharp implement.

Bradstreet swallowed around a throat gone dry. Gregson sensibly stayed right where he was by the teapot.

Barstone regarded the battered paper, and slowly unfolded it in the hush of the Yard. The contents looked back at him.

Newly minted Commissioner Barstone (despite a surname that hailed from the wilds of provencal England), did not fully achieve his post by connections. Bradstreet saw the man lift his eyebrows a few times as he read the missive—perhaps Imperial Summons was a better description.

"Is Mr. Holmes always like this?" Barstone asked Bradstreet.

Bradstreet cleared his throat. "Like what, sir?"

"Well…unmindful of common manners."

"Not always, sir." Bradstreet was forced into honesty. "But to be fair…There are times when he really is impossible."

"Ah." Barstone straightened, and rapped on Lestrade's door.

-

Lestrade had found a broken quill and was now rooting in past records for one of Holmes in a more than usually outrageous disguise. "Enter," he growled without looking up—then some prickle of foreshadowing caused him to do so. What had happened to Bradstreet a moment ago happened to him as well at the sight of the newest member of the Yard's aristocracy standing in the doorway, his telegram in hand.

"I think you dropped this," Barstone said in his gentle voice.

Like Bradstreet, Lestrade had to remember the manual mechanisms involved with swallowing.

Barstone smiled softly, lowering the telegram to the desk where he noted the detective could not resist one last baleful glare. The newcomer settled himself by degrees in the single guest-chair Lestrade kept, and patted down his pockets for his cigarette-case.

Normally, when someone above one in rank offered you a smoke, it was followed by a praiseworthy summary of all the good one had done on behalf of the organisation, and follow it with regrets for dismissal or disciplinary action.

Lestrade took the cigarette.

"I confess, I haven't worked often with amateurs, consultants, private parties…" Barstone confessed without the least bit of shyness as he found his match-box. "But I am a bit surprised at the tone of this." He tapped the battered paper with a well-trimmed fingernail.

Much to Lestrade's horror, his mouth opened and words of defence came out. "Most of the time there's no trouble, sir. He does his job and we do ours."

"Mn." Barstone exhaled smoke thoughtfully, waiting for Lestrade to finish lighting his own. "He started out as a sort of in-room consultant, did he not?"

Lestrade felt his shoulders droop at that particular question. "That's not an easy answer, Commisioner. He _did_ do the majority of his work from his home, but…well, I don't think _any_ of us knows just how much work he performs from outside."

"And he has a brother who works for the government." Barstone tapped ash lightly.

"Yes, sir."

"I met him once." Barstone murmured. "Rather..._intimidating_, if you ask me. Is Mr. Sherlock anything like that?"

Lestrade frankly found Mycroft Holmes a comparative blessing, a warm breeze in January, a civil conversationalist, and not a bad drinker of hard ciders or a dash of perry. While it was clear he was smart enough to make anyone, even his brother, look like a schoolboy, it wasn't out of maliciousness or the impatience that marked the younger Holmes. Lestrade _liked _Mycroft.

He had the good sense not to say so.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a..." He searched frantically for the right word, and for some reason it came to him. "A prodigy, sir. They are often trying."

"Hmn." Barstone's face was as pleasant as his voice—one of those men who will look youthful and well-tended for up until the day before they die of old age. "Is he really as good with disguise as rumors have it?"

"Absolutely." Lestrade said flatly.

"Interesting. And he's been of assistance to the Yard in the past."

_Here it is_…Lestrade nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The Commissioner's dark blue eyes narrowed in thought as he plumed smoke into the air. "I went back to the records when I achieved my post, I'll confess. Things are quite different in London than what I'm used to." He smiled in a self-depreciating manner. "Up by the North Sea, criminals and peace-keepers alike spend a great deal of their year just in keeping warm."

It would be a long time before Lestrade thought of London as a 'balmy climate,' but he understood what the man was saying. There was a definite priority to just staying alive in some of the Crown's lands. Ireland was still an incentive for good behavior.

"Well." Barstone regarded the paper with a look mixed of regret and puzzlement. "Is he worth it, Inspector?"

Again, Lestrade frightened himself with his capacity for honesty. "He has lost very few cases, Commissioner. And he tends to leave his name out of the media."

"I'd heard that. I didn't believe it at first, but well, the evidence was there. What was it last year…fifty-six cases where the Yard called him in, and he was only mentioned three times?"

"A fairly typical ratio, sir." The only price was in the verbal chastisements that went with working with him...or rather, standing back, and watching Holmes work.

Barstone locked his eye. "You mention him in your reports, though." He said in a bland voice. "You mention him every time you consult him?"

"And every time I find myself working with him." Lestrade did not hide his sigh. "He is personally abrasive, but I can't argue with his results."

"Can you think of a reason why he would be...well..." Barstone hesitated, his puzzlement causing the behavior. "Why would be demand your presence so far in advance?"

Lestrade cleared his throat. _Haven't read the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter, have you? _ "In the past, Mr. Holmes has worried that he cannot reach the appropriate authorities in time," he said as tactfully as he knew how. "There was at least one delay in the processing that I can think of," _Thank you, Mr. Gregson_, "where a man died and a second man came close to it, because the Yard couldn't get to the site within the hour." _And a poor woman was forced to work her own justice on her captors. We'll hold the guilt for that too, and don't think Mr. Holmes will forget that any more than he'll stop blaming himself for not being a fortune-teller..._

"Shabby little mess involved here." Barstone exhaled smoke thoughtfully. "What are you going to tell the wife, Lestrade? Isn't she going to want to hear your rationale for not being with the family for the holidays?"

_You have no idea, sir. I'm not just avoiding the family…_

"I would have to tell her the truth, sir." _She'd kill me if I didn't_. Then again, she'd probably kill him anyway. "That if the case is successful, the city is safer by one more criminal put away." _She just might swallow that…_

Barstone sighed heavily. "Still...You should go, then. If you feel you must."

Lestrade was shocked. "Just that simply, sir?"

"No, not that simply." Barstone suddenly grinned, which made him look even ridiculously younger. "Just a moment." He rose to his feet and went to the doorway.

-

Outside, Gregson had been quietly booking up the bets on Lestrade's potential fate. He stuffed his hands in his pockets just in time.

"Gentlemen," The Commissioner lifted his voice to get everyone's attention. "I suppose it isn't news that one of you won't be here in London for Christmas." Barstone paused to look upon everyone in the room, from Inspector to Constable. "_Do_ bear that in mind when you're divvying up the swag, would you?"

-


	3. Holiday Bribes

Clea Lestrade was sweating—in all senses of that term—in an overly warm kitchen fragrant with bread-dough over a sheaf of notes that comprised everything the family would have to endure while celebrating at the Cheatham Country Home when a cool draught and her husband's familiar tread alerted her to his presence.

"Thank God," She breathed. "Geoffrey, I don't know what I'm going to do about this mess!" She shoved one pile of paper to the side and picked up another. "That awful Mrs. Masters—she did this on purpose!"

"Did what on purpose?" Geoffrey leaned his head in the doorway. His arms were full of uproarious greenery, trying to lower it to the floor in a safe spot, but she was too angry to pay attention for the moment, much less help.

"She asked _me_ if I would do the honours of being in charge of the feast!" Clea stood, all five-feet of her, and slapped her palm upon the table.

"Err, Clea…" Geoffrey moved a gigantic potted rosemary bush that had been trimmed to look like a Christmas evergreen, to the table she normally settled her greengroceries on (Geoffrey, being male, probably thought it belonged there because it was green). It was the largest rosemary-tree Clea had seen in years and she paused briefly in her ire. "I thought you liked to be in charge of the feast."

She shook herself. Geoffrey's inability to understand helped bring her indignation back.

"That's _not the point_, Geoffrey, yes I do enjoy the feast, but I do not enjoy _that woman's_ input!" Hands on hips, Clea began a full boil of steam, but Geoffrey hurriedly lifted a finger to signal he would be 'right back' and stepped quickly back to the tradesman's entrance. "Just put it right there, thanks," she heard him say as cold wind whistled about their ankles. "Don't spend that guinea in one place, Crane!" He scolded fondly. "And tell Treasure to quit using up his pay at the King's Boar! I'm fairly certain that isn't any sort of _pig_ they're putting in those pies."

"Geoffrey, are you listening to me?"

"You said it wasn't the point, you do enjoy the feast, but not Mrs. Masters' input."

"We do not mention that name in my house."

"Yes'um." Geoffrey leaned back into the kitchen, shutting the door after him with his inturned left foot. This time his arms were full of a small pear tree. Someone had hung little marzipan pears on the branches. A tiny paper partridge bobbed on the top.

"Geoffrey, I don't think you're listening to me."

"I just repeated to you nearly verbatim—"

"I hate that woman! I loathe her, I abhor her, I despise her, and most of all, I cannot endure the way she smirks at me and talks about how _clever_ I am and how _fortunate_ I was to find a husband so 'skilled with his hands.'" Clea felt the steam-bank boil back up. "As if I'm the family embarrassment, who was _fortunate_ enough to find someone equally embarrassing to share my fate with!"

"Ah, Clea…why did she ask you to cook? And weren't you going to cook anyway?"

"That is not the point! I'll take a room full of Ebenezeer Scrooges before I invite her to anything!"

"You don't have a choice with family, and at least she never tried to kill _you_."

Clea was going past the point of exasperation fairly early. "I know, dear, but just because your brothers tried to kill you in the past, that doesn't mean that makes her any different by comparison—just put it by the lamp—from what you tell me, trying to kill you was something of a way to pass the time with them."

"Probably." Geoffrey said sourly. "Being tainted at birth probably helped. Which reminds me, thank you for marrying me anyway."

"You're quite welcome. The point is," Clea exhaled her exasperation as Geoffrey cracked the door back open and pulled in a yard-tall and neatly trimmed bay laurel with deep green bows. "By the fireplace," she directed. "You should have brought it in first in this chill."

"Sorry."

"She's going to ruin the holiday!" Clea persisted. "No matter what I do, she's going to say something about how her cook can do this, or her cook can do that, or my hand with the sauces is so different from her cook's…I don't know if I should murder the cook or canonize him! He used to work for a baronet, and she's never let anyone forget it."

"Baronets aren't that high up in status," Geoffrey frowned. "The title hasn't even been around, what? Three hundred years? And for heaven's sakes, it's something you could purchase for a song to help Queen James raise funds!"

Clea paused, and shook herself. "Geoffrey, you really shouldn't call him that!"

"What?" Geoffrey asked too innocently. "Do you have a problem with Queens?"

"Oh—" Clea walked over and slapped his bowler off his head, catching it to hang up. "It doesn't matter. The point is, she has this wretched conceit and…what is that?"

"I think it's…" Geoffrey poked the object in question, and lowered his head to sniff. "Figgy pudding."

"You don't know?"

"It's from the Yard party, Clea. I have no idea what half this stuff is…Bradstreet went home with _truffles_, poor man. Now Hazel is going to garrote him for forcing her to alter their menu." Geoffrey pulled out another object with a sigh. "And that looks like Spotted Dick…and I suppose that's sugarplums…can't people give other people things that won't give them diseases?"

"Geoffrey, you aren't paying attention to…" Clea's voice trailed off. She took in the three expensive trees, and two _large _bags of confections.

Gradually, the sound of the crackling fire overwhelmed all other sound.

Geoffrey sighed and put down the bag. He faced his wife resignedly.

"You aren't coming." Clea stated flatly.

"No."

Clea counted to ten. "Dare I ask what the reason is?"

"I have a note…" Geoffrey pulled out the telegram. He wordlessly handed it over.

Clea's deep blue eyes narrowed. And widened. And narrowed again.

"I see."

More silence.

Clea finally looked back up. "I take it this is…guilt from the boys?"

"I said no to the half-bushel of mistletoe, the chocolate whiskeys, the kissing bells, the bushel of sops-of-wine1, and the pickled trout."

"Good of you." Clea was still using that calm voice. "Is this the same "Constantin Jackson' that you've been arresting off and on for the past fifteen years?"

"I'm afraid so."

"How many people has he killed?"

"That depends. Are we counting the people we can't prove?"

"Geoffrey…"

"Yes…?"

"Go get the paring-knife."

"The paring knife?"

"Your train leaves at three o'clock tomorrow. You have plenty of time to seed the raisins before you go."

1 An old apple with tiny red flecks inside the flesh, the 'sops"


	4. Revenge

A light fleck of wet, sticky snow speckled the chilled glass of every street-facing window of the building. At least it was pleasantly warm (despite the prevalent chill that crept along the floor-boards and flowed with the air; the lot of buildings in winter). Despite the weather, there was still a bit of holiday cheer hanging off the walls in the form of decorations and the occasional idiotic smile on the detectives.

Bradstreet and Gregson were without a doubt, not smiling.

"They were on sale, that's all I could find out." Bradstreet informed the pale Inspector. "There was a bloomin' huge box of them at an estate sale, and the whole lot was bought up for a _shilling_."

"A flippin' shilling for…" Gregson did some quick arithmetic. "Seven bloody baker's dozen of those high-pitched little tickets to the Insanity Train…"

"You can get there from Spitalfield," Bradstreet joked. The door opened and with it, a minor gale of air so cold it was a wonder the wind itself wasn't frozen stiff. Lestrade spun and slammed the door shut with his shoulder; a flutter of dirty scraps of paper off the street—so dirty the hard-ups hadn't collected them, or perhaps they were wisely holed up in their little slums, trying to keep from freezing.

"Whuff," He breathed out, and struggled to peel his muffler from around his face. Ice glittered to the floor from where the steam of his breath had settled into the weave. "Thank God for first-class tickets!" He exclaimed softly, and took in the other two. "Something wrong?"

"Ah, no, Lestrade, thank you. Just trying to stay warm."

"Oh. Well. Good luck." Lestrade hurried into his office. "I have just enough time to finish that file and collect those blank warrants…"

Bradstreet glanced at Gregson. As one, they slowly followed him in where he had already yanked the typewriter out and was pounding away like a devil with a new whip.

"So, anything new?" Gregson asked with an overdone casualness.

Lestrade glanced up briefly. "New? Other than the fact that I'm living on borrowed time until my dubious return from this sodding nightmare of a case?"

Bradstreet coughed delicately. "Borrowed time, eh..?"

Gregson scowled. "Come off it, Lestrade. We know what you did."

Lestrade was holding a pencil in his teeth while he rooted about for a holding-clip. "Did what?"

Bradstreet wordlessly reached into his pocket and pulled out a very small, innocuous little object fashioned of metal. "PC Treasure got this off a young boy who threatened to play this in the crowd until he was paid." He said dryly. "Needless to say, he's walking home with enough to pay for a nice bowl of eels tunnite."

Lestrade chuckled. "There's a switch." He went back to his work.

"We're not accusing you of anything, Lestrade." Gregson said in exasperation. "We just want to know, how the _devil_ did you find out Sherlock Holmes hates piston whistles?"

And therein was the mystery. Somewhere, somehow, Lestrade had, upon one of his irritating cases involving Sherlock Holmes, learned the amateur detective positively loathed any sounds that came out of the piston flute. As the piston whistle was a small, fairly cheap child's toy, there was rarely a shortage of their notes in London, especially where children, street-performers, or a Punch and Judy show was taking place.

At the time when Lestrade reported this tit-bit of news, the weather had been warm and pleasant, and the ability to walk away from irritating sounds were plenty.

Yesterday evening, Gregson was walking home from the Yard when he could not help but notice that there were suddenly a _lot_ of small children running around, enthusiastically trumpeting shrill descending notes upon brightly shining new piston-whistles. He also noticed that the majority of the children (albeit not all of them), were part of a raucous gang known as the Baker Street Irregulars. The rest were members of all the streets surrounding Baker Street from here to a certain tobacco shop favoured and frequented by a Baker Street detective.

"You realize," Bradstreet said after clearing his throat, "that some people might consider the largess of Christmas gift-giving to children, especially very poor children, a mistake. They might expect it of you more often."

Lestrade glanced up from his typing, and his expression was so bland and inoffensive it lifted the hairs off Bradstreet's neck. "That's why gifts are given anonymously, Roger." He pointed out.

"Cruel." Gregson grunted. "Cruel, Lestrade. Very, very cruel. Holmes is strung up like a thoroughbred horse as it is. The fact that there are now over _ninety-one_ new piston whistles--well, just ninety now that this one was taken--scarpering about London within close proximity could tip him straight back to the cocaine."

"It's a free country." Lestrade kept typing. "At least, that's what my wife said when I told her I was taking the train to someplace other than the Western Line to her father's country house. She then told me I had to stone thirty-six ounces of dried raisins for the Christmas pudding."

"Well, it's still cruel." Bradstreet was struggling hard not to laugh. "It's very amusing, Lestrade, but it's also very cruel." He finally snickered. "Are you ever going to tell us how you found out about the whistles?"

"Certainly not. My life resembles a work of fiction enough."

"It's a shame you're going to miss out on the family." Bradstreet sympathized.

Lestrade sighed too, but for a different reason. "I'm not adverse to avoiding one in-law in particular, which happens to be the ersatz mother-in-law of my most annoying brother-in-law." A bona fide smirk was struggling to surface through a face that would have done a Red Indian proud.

"Oh, that Mrs. Masters?" Bradstreet winced. "Why is it we could never prosecute her?"

"Probably because her ignorance is as great as her arrogance." Lestrade said darkly. "And she probably didn't know for a _fact_ that she sent the Yard into a flooding tin mine. Just hopeful."

"Oh, well, that explains it so nicely." Gregson rubbed at his temples in agonizingly slow circles. "When you put things into that sort of warped perspective, Ratty, tromping after a professional murderer in a marshland sounds like a fair trade."

"The Western Swan Fens are not a **marsh**. They are a frozen Arctic wasteland." Bradstreet shuddered like a rather large cat. "The leftovers that were too awful to be stuck in the Wadden Sea. The scientist blokes keep digging up all those bones of prehistoric humans because so many of them died of despair before they could walk their way out."

"Forget it, Bradstreet. You can't have this case."

"Are you _certain _Clea isn't going to do you harm?" Bradstreet wondered as accepted Lestrade's papers for the filing. Gregson had gone back to his own office and a cup of tea, muttering strange imprecautions under his breath.

Lestrade shrugged wearily. "I certainly owe her. Especially this year. Mrs. Masters, I hear, is going to measure up Clea's abilities with that of her own cook's."

Bradstreet scowled as he tried to remember. "That bloke who cooked for that baronet?"

"Yes. The _Irish_ baronet. The Irish barts haven't even been around for three centuries."

"Newcomers." Bradstreet scoffed. "They're a fussy lot, too. Want to act like they came over with Harald the Viking or somesuch."

"If there were any of those, they were killed off centuries ago. At _least_ six centuries ago." Lestrade said with deep annoyance. "Honestly. Doesn't any self-respecting schoolteacher actually teach the children anything now..?"

"Probably not, if it means they have to bring Ireland into the classroom." Bradstreet pointed out. He watched Lestrade wince.


	5. For the Birds

Lestrade was already in the train car, his feet propped neatly on the rim of his single satchel and American gripsack and reading the pink pages when Holmes and Watson emerged from the scrawny hallway.

"Hello, Inspector." The doctor's naturally dusky complexion was a little paler than usual, with two spots of high colour dancing about his cheekbones. Feverish? His eyes were overbright too.

Holmes brushed past Watson and sat down by the opposing window without a word. Lestrade had long ago learned both men were view-hogs, and had already taken a spot against the wall. It saved his nerves in the long run.

"Hello, doctor, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade tilted his head. "Are you feeling well, doctor? You look a bit on the peaky side."

Watson sighed, which cued Lestrade he had inadvertently popped a cork. Holmes flashed Watson a triumphant look. "I am fine," he said sternly. "It's just a spot of this weather, which, being _England_, will pass soon enough."

Holmes snorted rudely.

Watson gave him an unfriendly look.

Lestrade silently counted his odds of survival between a long train ride with an Afghani war veteran with a temper and an Adams, and...Sherlock Holmes.

The train lurched into motion. Holmes peered out, watching the platform slip past as he drummed his long fingers against the slim sill, while Watson patiently settled himself and their luggage in the appropriate places. "Shall I get that for you, Lestrade?"

"Mn? Oh, no, thank you, John. I like to have this close."

"Well." Watson settled across from Holmes but seemed uninterested in looking out. "How are things, Lestrade?"

Watson engaging in idle talk in front of Holmes? Lestrade's counting of the odds abruptly lurched like a broken Four-Cycle and staggered up again. Sure enough, Holmes was flashing his closest friend a look of horrified distaste before throwing his attention back to the glass.

"Well enough, thank you. The family's not exactly pleased at my choice for the holiday." Lestrade answered honestly, but he was starting to get an uneasy feeling. "The wife said it was worth it for us all if London was safer by one less murderous element, though."

Watson's smile was quick and admiring. "Spoken like an admirable wife."

"That she is." Lestrade smiled. "But Jackson did murder one of her customers. I believe that gives her a bit of a personal stake in this."

Watson smiled too. "With any hope Holmes will have him rounded up as quickly as possible." He reached for his smoking-case. Holmes had already found his own. "How is the young Mr. Nicholas doing?"

"Doing well, I'm pleased to say—" Lestrade caught the spasm of crunching impatience on Holmes' face and stopped talking. He went back to reading the sports-items.

Most of the trip out of the district was extended in a stiff silence. Lestrade bore it as it thickened and grew to the consistency of pease porridge; he rose up on the excuse of finding the dining-car. Halfway down the hall he thought he should return for his coat; the wind was picking up.

Sounds of a blistering quarrel floated out of the shut door before he could put his hand back on the knob.

_"I was asking because Nicholas is a former patient of mine! You do know he and his mother nearly died at his birth? It's probably why he's even taking this wretched case, Holmes! You don't call it 'idle conversation' when a client of yours spends twenty minutes describing his lineage before he goes into the reason for consulting you in the first place!"_

Lestrade let his hand drop from the knob. A silent whistle of his own crossed his lips and he backed away, step by step, out of the range of fire. His respect for Watson's honor had just increased—as did his worry that the man could be a bit too brave around Holmes.

Holmes was a reluctant asset to the Yard, but everyone knew that his services did not come cheap or free. Given the slightest discouragement and the man would stop using the assistance of a detective for months—years, even. It left not a few of the men bewildered and floundering the wake of what they had thought was a good working relationship.

Lestrade wasn't completely certain about Holmes on any given day. He _was_ certain the man was a little on the mad side, which excused everything while explaining a lot. At the same time, he had to admire his ability for solving cases in methods he didn't understand. Oh, it _sounded _simple enough when he described his methods—but there were too many things that could go wrong. Lestrade didn't have the head for his kind of work.

He didn't have a head for a _lot_ of what entailed Sherlock Holmes. A fact he was thoroughly at peace with. He just let the man have his lead and picked up the pieces that followed.

-

Watson came to the dining-car not long after. He looked like he wished he could stamp his heels like a child.

Lestrade waved him over. "Don't try the eggs," he warned.

"Lost your money, eh?" Watson smiled slightly.

"Didn't even bother. Saw what they looked like on another's plate." Lestrade leaned back with a light sigh. "Try the coffee. It's marvelous."

Watson took the waiter's cup and did as he was directed. His eyes went briefly wide and white. "Good heavens. Is someone stealing out of the Buckingham kitchen again?"

"If they are, it'll be Morton's case, poor man." Lestrade poured himself another cup and a blissful expression crossed his face at the scent. "How goes the Kensington practice?"

Watson shrugged. "It comes and goes." He looked awkward. "I wasn't asking for clients when I inquired about your son."

Lestrade waved it off. "I know you didn't; the boy's in ridiculously good health now. As his brother and their mother, knock wood." Lestrade would be paying the bills for that emergency specialist until Martin was out of school, unfortunately. Watson need not know that.

"Holmes is not in the best of humours right now," Watson was not apologizing for his friend—Watson never apologized for his friends; he defended them to a fault. He was merely explaining Holmes behavior, present and future. "Do you remember that summer where those Swanee whistles were all about the park?"

"The Henley Regatta case? Yes. It sounded like an army of silly birds full of fermented fruit."

"Well, it seems a lot of children are into the fashion of those things. We've been hearing their whistles half the night."

"Well, would Mr. Holmes feel better if he knew the Yard has confiscated two already?" Lestrade pulled one out of his pocket, causing the doctor's eyes to go wide again. "I took this off a guttersnipe who was using it to taunt a kissing couple. Not that my sympathies are with the couple—they can keep that inside where it belongs. But the little imp was being a bit suggestive with the sliding element."

Watson turned beetroot-red and put his hand over his mouth. The coffee had been swallowed just in time. "Where was I?" He strangled.

"Well, I was going to ask you if you knew anything about the Jackson case. I take it Holmes is convinced he's in this marsh."

Watson sighed. "It fits his previous history…find a victim who works with animals, and gain employment, work up their confidence, and then kill them."

"What I never understood is why he selects people who work with animals." Lestrade resumed his meal; he paid for it, he was going to eat it. "It's not like there's anything we could find in his family history."

"Holmes suspects the man sees it as a…challenge."

"A challenge?" Lestrade repeated. "A challenge to target men and women who are doing good work with dumb beasts?"

"Many of those poor people are good with animals because they can't communicate with people." Watson said innocently. "Are you all right, Lestrade?"

"M'fine," Lestrade coughed into his napkin. Thoughts of his own father, a horse-master who could never master conversation, had emerged. "That's…that's a poignant observation, though. He might be right."

"Well," Watson pulled out his tiny notebook. "There was the Welshman Triplett, who was famous for his ability to rehabilitate horses, and the Lady Norrington, with her charity based on rescuing abused former show-dogs…" He turned a page. "Jas. Munro, although I don't know how he could afford feeding all those snakes…"

"Snakes don't eat that much, do they?" Lestrade protested.

"He had one that ate a whole live chicken every two weeks. Tell me that doesn't add up on the butcher's bill!"

Lestrade struggled for composure. "Surely the butcher charged less if he didn't have to bother with bleeding, draining, plucking and wrapping?"

"He'd just as easily charge extra for the aggravation." Watson said grimly. "I know some of those butchers. Let's see…there's your wife's unfortunate patron, the late Matthew Pevensey…"

"Sweet old man, I have to say. He didn't have trouble speaking with us."

"He worked with canaries?"

"Yes. Sometimes they get injured and can't fly; they're often killed. But they aren't the cheapest pet to buy. He would take them all in." A few he had fed red pepper, and it had turned their feathers a beautiful orange colour. Clea had cried when they'd got news of his death.

"Lestrade?"

Lestrade shook himself. "Sorry. Woolgathering," he explained absently. "It's just that…well, '84 was a fairly dreadful year for everyone. I think my marriage and Martin's late-winter birth were the only bright spots in it." Fenian bombings, two of the policemen murdered…and poor Mr. Pevensey. "What's he at the Western Swan fens for, anyway?"

"Swans." Watson said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Come on."

"No, no, I'm serious. There's a population of North American swans being tended to by a retired game-keeper."

"Th—wh—th—" Lestrade held up both hands. "Hold on there, John Watson. Just…hold on there." The detective glared across the table. "North American swans?"

"Yes. Trumpeters." Watson re-checked his notebook.

"What are they doing over here?"

"Who knows?"

"But—Watson—Doctor—_John_—we're talking _swans_!"

"Yesss?" Watson asked, politely and innocently.

"John. _Listen to me_. _Swans are royal property_! _This is a matter for the palace_!"

Watson didn't blink. "They're North American swans."

"Yes, you said so. Trumpeters? What is your point?"

"Perhaps they don't qualify?"

"Well we still have Canada, do we not?" Lestrade wanted to know. "And you aren't going to get more **North** American than that."

"Just a moment…I think Holmes asked that very same question to His Lordship…" Watson began paging through his book.

"His Lordship? His Lordship who? Watson, what the devil am I caught up in?" Piston whistles weren't enough. Not by half.

"Ah. Here we are. Lord De Lessups said the Palace deemed them physiologically identical to the Whooper Swan of Eurasia. And as the Crown already has a flock of Whooper swans—"

Lestrade leaned over the table and locked his hand around Watson's in a death-grip. "John Hamish Watson, do not tell me I am involved with the De Lessups in this case!" He hissed. "Do not."

Watson blinked. "This isn't the same De Lessups who set those dogs on you, Lestrade. It's his successor, Lord J—"

"I don't sodding care if it's the same De Lessups who earned his title by preventing that silly plot with the poisoned potatoes in the first place. I. Do not. Work well. With delusional peerage." Lestrade bit each word off at the end as it escaped his lips.

"I sympathize," Watson said, and he looked as though he did. Watson just had one of those faces. "But the fact is, the new Lord has a perfect memory. Photographic. And he was visiting the archaeological dig when he glimpsed the new worker."

Lestrade un-kinked his fingerbones from around Watson and slowly retracted. "I see." He groaned. "Trumpeters, eh?"

"Yes. Holmes personally doesn't think Whoopers and Trumpeters are the same; Trumpeters have a tendency to be a bit longer in the body…"

"We're still talking about large birds, are we not?"

"Hmn, normally two yards long, with a ten-foot wingspan, and a weight achieving 38 pounds or better…"

Lestrade's neck prickled. He realized he was straightening in his chair and physically preparing for very unfortunate news. "Watson, there's something about the way you just said 'normally'…"

Watson looked abashed.

"Just _why_ are these swans off in their own little fiefdom, doctor?"

"Well, they appear to be rescued specimens from a previous swan-keeper who was breeding for consistency in size…" The doctor took pity on the little detective. "And hoping to impress the Queen with swan-liver pate…" Lestrade gulped loudly. "If I'm to believe this, the average new standard was forty-five pounds..."

"Oh, my God!" Lestrade blurted. "The Cheathams of swandom! You're talking about bloody great birds the size of my own in-laws!"

"I'm sure the swans aren't the problem, Lestrade…"

"Watson," Lestrade had his head in his hands. "You were never a bluebottle patrolling the parks."


	6. The Road to Hell

_My apologies for not explaining just how annoying a piston whistle can be. If you watch cartoons, you have heard them plenty of times. They are the sound effects used whenever an elevator goes down, or Wile E. Coyote drops something large and heavy off a cliff to get the road runner._

SIR GEORGE HOW ARE HOLIDAYS QUERY REMEMBER SWAN UPPING FOR QUEEN AT THAMES AT 82 QUERY ARE WHOOPER SWANS SAME AS TRUMPETERS QUERY SIR NABAL DE LESSUPS STOP

-

Two changes of train, and each one was completely different than the other before.

"Ahem, Doctor..?" Lestrade asked in a tone of voice that was unusually timid. Even Mr. Holmes pulled out from the cloud of his black mood to pay attention to him. The Yarder was standing between a garishly festooned double-pillar of holiday cheer in the form of filthy coloured paper chains and bundles of holly. The holly-berries were carefully painted and wired-on dried peas. Holmes doubted anyone but himself noticed; the layer of frozen grime on everything would deter all but the strongest observationalist.

Watson had been grimly folding a torn sheet of his Bradshaw into the book. A single streak ran across his forehead where a passing cinder had, against the usual Newtonian laws, jumped through a gap in their broken window and struck him. "Yes, Lestrade?"

"You're a writer…" Lestrade wasn't looking at either man, but staring down the tracks to the upcoming train.

"_Yes_, Lestrade?"

"Is it grammatically correct to use the words, 'progressively worse' in a sentence?"

Watson followed his gaze. "It is if you are referring to that particular locomotive, Inspector." Watson was quiet a moment. "Now that," he decided, "is a distinct contrast to the festivities."

"It looks like Mycroft Holmes," Lestrade muttered under his breath. A choking sound from behind proved the sharpness of his companion's ears. The Yarder winced slightly and turned around. Sherlock Holmes had yanked his traveling-pipe from his mouth in order to laugh harder.

"If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, gentlemen," It was the first complete sentence Holmes had said in Lestrade's presence in nearly twenty-four miles, "I would hesitate to guess where _this _train is taking us."

_I'd be proud of that if I could have predicted that reaction,_ Lestrade thought wearily. Next to him, Watson was staring with a similar astonishment. _I hope I didn't just use up the Christmas miracle...I have a feeling I'll be needing it in the near future._

-

SIR NABAL HOW THINGS QUERY FELLOW SURVIVOR SWAN UPPING DISASTER IN 82 STOP PECKED TO DEATH BY CYGNETS STOP NEARLY STOP WHOOPERS SAME AS ELK SWANS AS YOU SHOULD KNOW STOP

-

The last train was comprised of many gaps, a whistling frigid wind, and a lunch that was so stale that even Holmes noticed it was unpalatable. Lestrade privately thought the staff should be flattered to have gained his attention. He took in the cold sandwiches, which were stale on one side and soggy on the other, and wordlessly opened his gripsack to produce a cut of white cheese and a handful of French dessert apples. It may have been what prevented a total battle between the other passengers and Watson later; Watson was usually of a martial slant when he missed a meal.

As it was, Watson managed to alienate _half _the passengers and his own companions by insisting that the women and children should be permitted to leave the train first as it wheezed rheumatically to its stop. The doctor, who had dealt with the bloodbath of Maiwand, merely sniffed at the packed forest of grime-besodden, cold-blistered and red-faced men armed with soot-smeared, cinder-stung and red-eyed glowers and guttural threats without turning a hair.

Lestrade quietly reached for his iron—just to make certain it was there, he told himself.

-

GEORGE THANK YOU STOP KNOW WHOOPER SWAN SAME AS ELK STOP ARE WHOOPERS SAME AS TRUMPETERS QUERY SIR NABAL STOP

-

"When it comes to trains of this calibre, gentlemen," Watson snapped in a crisp bark that would have done his old Colonel proud, "the same rules apply as to sinking ships."

More mutters, but they subsided. Holmes was about to be impressed, but he noted out of the corner of his eye that Lestrade had pulled out his badge and was casually polishing it in a way that revealed the handle of his truncheon.

The women and children, all in tears if not on the verge, departed with a gratifying speed and not a few prayers for Watson's kindness.

"Best let the others go," Holmes advised. "They'll forget to be angry once they see we let them go before us."

"I agree." Lestrade sighed. "It works with labour riots."

-

NABAL WHY TRUMPETERS QUERY STOP

-

GEORGE COMMA DO YOU KNOW DIFFERENCE QUERY STOP

-

NABAL COMMA WHOOPERS USUALLY MISTOOK FOR BEWICKS SWAN END

-

GEORGE COMMA WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT WHOOPERS AND TRUMPETERS QUERY STOP

-

The three piled out in the nick of time. The train was already whistling to signal whatever hapless prisoners were to enter the warped doors, and before they knew it, were deserted on the platform.

"Watch your step, Watson." Holmes had noticed that the successive layers of moist steam had descended a gray, freezing mist over the platform and every square inch about it.

"Are we still in England, Holmes?" Watson murmured under his mustache. He piled his muffler about his throat and chin.

"Hold up," Lestrade said crisply, and promptly left Holmes and Watson gaping after him as he vanished into a small souvenir shop off the platform.

Watson looked at Holmes, who shrugged.

"I have no idea," the detective informed him. His gloved fingers ran over the handle of his walking-stick impatiently.

"Well we need to find the carriage anyway—" Watson sneezed at a sudden cloud of dust. That a patch of earth had managed to dry out among all the chilly wet was astonishing.

Holmes watched, his lean face ossifying as Watson's single sneeze evolved into a spate of loud, bark-like coughing. The doctor was leaning heavily on his own stick when Lestrade hurried out a moment later, his gripsack bulging.

"Are you all right, doctor?"

"We shall be fine if we needn't linger on this platform," Holmes answered in cutting tones.

"Just a…" Watson coughed one last time. "Lingering cough, Lestrade." He gasped faintly.

"I see." Lestrade revised his original estimation of the man's high colour and suddenly, the childishly rotten temper of Mr. Holmes made much more sense.

_Watson ill. Watson bored to his back teeth. Case breaks monotony in Baker Street. Holmes says wrong thing. Watson explodes. Holmes explodes. Holmes goes to pursue dangerous criminal. Watson insists on coming._

Lestrade knew it was ridiculous to tell two grown adults what to do, much less two grown adult men who never had a single precedent for listening to the Yard in the past. Still, he had a strong urge to find a corner for each one to stand in.

-

NABAL COMMA CERTAIN OF DIFFERENCE QUERY WHOOPERS USUALLY MISTOOK FOR BEWICKS STOP

-

GEORGE COMMA KINDLY SEE PREVIOUS WIRE STOP

-

NABAL COMMA BEWICKS BEAKS MORE BLACK THAN YELLOW STOP WHOOPERS MORE YELLOW THAN BLACK STOP BEWICKS SMALLER STOP

-

GEORGE COMMA SEE PREVIOUS WIRE STOP

-

WHY WHOOPERS QUERY

-

GEORGE COMMA PLEASE RESPOND TO QUERY ON TRUMPETERS STOP

-

WHOOPERS SOUND LIKE BROKEN EUPHONIUMS STOP TRUMPETERS LIKE FRENCH HORNS STOP

-

GEORGE MORE DETAILS PLEASE STOP

-

NABAL TRUMPETERS LARGER BEAK BLACK WITH SALMON STOP

-

GEORGE NEVER MIND PLEASE SEND RECOMMENDATION FOR REFERENCE MATERIAL MERRY CHRISTMAS STOP


	7. Plans

The carriage was almost a statistic apology to the trio after the hardships previous. It was clean, new, the metals polished, and the horses well tended. The driver, whom Holmes had hired long-distance, had thoughtfully seen to everything.

Watson sighed in surprised bliss at the discovery of hot wrapped bricks at their feet. "Incredible," he decreed, and permitted his eyes to shut in appreciation.

Holmes made a soft sound of agreement and pulled the traveling-carpet about him on his side. Without Watson at the peak of his own powers to keep the man fed and rested, he was already looking as unwell as his companion. Lestrade resolved to avoid the mess unless one of them collapsed—either one would bite his head off for noticing they might need assistance. For now he was perfectly content to bury underneath his own blanket, which he shared with Watson. Watson was a human furnace on any given day.

"Need a nip?" He asked quickly. Watson, oddly enough for a doctor, seemed to forget to carry a flask half the time—relying on a small bottle in his fifteen-pound medical bag for when alcohol was needed.

Watson blew out his breath, testing the volume of steam in the still-warming passenger section. "Not now, thank you." He said.

Well, Lestrade had offered. He glanced over at Holmes. The detective was almost—not quite—smiling.

"No, thank you, Lestrade." Holmes answered back in a, dare it be said, pleasant voice.

Which only confirmed Lestrade's worst suspicions about how unpleasant the next few hours were about to be.

-

"Constantin Jackson is about six-foot seven, three hundred pounds _on average_, and in possession of the whitest skin you'll see west of albinism." Lestrade recited the memorized facts by heart, dutifully, and tried not to sound like a bored waiter with the nightly menu. Outside, the frosted windows revealed a barren, limitless plain of iced and snowed-over marshland. The weather had pounded the long grasses and reeds nearly flat, and then once it was all heavy with snow, two inches of sleet had frozen everything in place.

Lestrade thought it as demoralizing as Dartmoor, just more brightly lit.

"He refuses to eat meat of any sort, and has been known to become violently ill in the presence of eggs." Holmes added for a fascinated Watson's benefit. "_Cooked_ eggs, I should clarify."

"I know perhaps twenty people who eschew animal flesh," Watson was making a game effort to be as fair-minded as possible in this. The effort shone in his face. "Most of them have endured a past trauma of some sort…such as long-term employment in a meat processing facility…" He cleared his throat. "The reaction to eggs seems a bit extreme."

"He was once stopped in an act of murder by a man who knew of his…shall we say, mental obstacles," Holmes admitted. "By a threat to drop a dozen eggs on the sidewalk."

"And he is not in an asylum where he belongs?" Watson spoke a bit more harshly than intended. He started coughing again.

"He's been in asylums before, doctor," Lestrade confessed reluctantly. "But his usual meekness in ordinary and day to day examples is such that even the most suspicious guards will drop their vigilance. And to be truthful, there was one example where it could be said that the sanitarium provoked his escape."

"The attending physician thought to cure Jackson of his horror of eating meat." Holmes put in with an extremely rare example of brevity. "He employed a rather aggressive campaign."

Watson's jaw dropped open. Lestrade heard it click in the chill air. He then voiced the question Lestrade had been pondering for years: "Just to _what_ degree of insanity is this man living in?"

Holmes, to do him credit, shrugged his ignorance. "I would welcome the chance to peruse his diary," he admitted.

"I don't think they allowed him pencils," Lestrade said thoughtfully. "Or any other sharp implements."

Watson shook his head. "What are we to do, Holmes?"

"Ah, herein lies the problem," Holmes pressed his fingertips to his chin thoughtfully. "Mr. Jackson knows Mr. Lestrade by sight."

"He ought to." Lestrade scowled darkly. "I've arrested that caitiff eight times in the past fifteen years."

"Caitiff?" Holmes' eyebrows briefly took wing. "That isn't your usual vocabulary, Lestrade."

Lestrade exhaled through his nose. "You can blame my improvement on the influenza."

"Influenza?"

"Yes. Do you have any idea how much reading material _one human being_ can go through when they're quarantined?" Lestrade locked eyes, dead-on, with Holmes' grey ones and leaned forward slightly. "I even ploughed through _two_ of your monographs." The latter had been an act of kindness Lestrade had yet to get back at Hopkins for--Lestrade preferred to gather a bit of interest on his return investments with revenge.

Watson carefully stifled his laughter. "Putting that aside, it is clear to me that Mr. Jackson should not see Lestrade."

"Nor should he see you, Watson." Holmes said crisply. "To all appearances, I should be travelling alone and unarmed."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, not that I'm questioning your judgment--" _God forbid_, Lestrade prayed fervently that this would _not _be seen as a challenge... "But, I _did _say Mr. Jackson is six-foot seven and averages to three hundred pounds?"

Holmes, the second-smartest man in London, looked blank as foolscap. "Your point, Inspector?"

"I don't think boxing will cover this, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade swallowed hard. "Or singlestick. Or that whatsit-su form you learned abroad.."

Watson moaned loudly. "If by which, you mean Baritsu, it was actually **Bartitsu**." The doctor appeared to be dwelling in the sort of deep pain only personal shame and anguish can create. "And speaking of influenza, one must never, ever submit a manuscript to an office that is down with it; you never know what sort of illiterate substitute editor will be working at the desk."

"Oh, my." Lestrade blinked. "All that aside, you _do _realize size and muscle is to Mr. Jackson's advantage."

Watson, alas, chose the worst possible moment to show he was listening. "How did _you _arrest him, Lestrade?" He wanted to know with that appalling curiosity that so often resembled rudeness. "You're not exactly on Holmes' size."

Here it was...Lestrade thought to hell with it, and pulled out his flask. "The first time I arrested him, I had the aid of five constables. They piled on him in a coordinated scrum--you would have appreciated that maneuver, Watson--but he did nearly throw two off. PC Murcher wound up sitting on his chest." Lestrade unscrewed the little cap and took a small toast. "The second time, I'm afraid it was a bit less dramatic."

"Hitting him with a door wasn't dramatic, Lestrade?" Holmes's eyebrows had again taken flight. "Perhaps you should go back to the dictionary."

Lestrade scowled. "It isn't as dramatic as it sounds!"

"Using a broken door as a cricket-bat and Jackson's head as the ball?" Holmes wanted to know. "Watson, seeing as how you insist on celebrating Christmas, do put the Inspector down for the complete Oxford's? It will be a worthwhile investment if it prevents future misunderstandings."

"Kindly do not slap me with your largess with a dictionary worth more than my wife's new cook-stove, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade snarled. "The door was broken because he'd smashed it down with his fists."

"Why did he smash a door down with his fists?" Watson had that look in his eye that said he was mentally taking notes.

"Because Lestrade was on the other side." Holmes explained. "I can't say for certain to an event I did not witness, but one swiftly gathers the impression that our Friend Lestrade could never be the friend of Mr. Jackson."

"He threatened to hang me with my own muffler and feed me to a herd of swine." Lestrade admitted.

"It was the third time that he'd killed your wife's patron, was it not?"

"Now that one went just a bit better." Lestrade permitted himself to smile. It was not a nice smile.

Holmes turned to Watson. "If Jackson hadn't been twice Mr. Lestrade's size and mass, I'm certain someone would have tried to call it abuse of the badge."

"I pounded him into porridge." Lestrade's smile had only grown. "It felt marvelous. He'd come at me with a red-hot poker, so I figured anything I did to him in return was legal."

"But for the record, Mr. Jackson's defense did try to say Mr. Lestrade had been physically abusive." Holmes smirked. "Need I say the uproarious laughter in the court-room did damage to that tactic?"

"So what _did _you do?" Watson was grinning.

"I kicked him in the chest to halt his charge and he fell out the window into a mill-pond." Lestrade looked regretful. "Too bad the wheel was locked up..."

"Yes, that would have prevented a few more murders." Holmes sighed.

"The fourth time was the worst." Lestrade's whole body still ached at the memory. "The absolute worst."

"Why, were horses involved?"

"Horses were involved in the fifth case. The fourth time, we had a hostage, who in turn held that dozen of eggs hostage. I swear, I prefer Jackson when he's in a slavering rage. He's ever so much worse when he's huddled up into a ball, babbling. We had to strap him down and shuttle him off in an ambulance."

"But the fifth case was horses."

"Which ended faster than any of the other cases. He'd just killed his victim and was rather stupidly trying to dispose of the body in a hay-cart. The horses naturally spooked at the smell of blood, and took off running down the street. Nearly ran Constable Johns over."

The sixth case was accidental," Holmes supplied gleefully. "Mr. Jackson spotted Mr. Lestrade in a crowd and enacted some vague thoughts of revenge."

"It ended badly." Lestrade said darkly. "Come to think of it, swans were involved then too." He unconsciously rubbed at his upper arm, as if remembering an injury.

"Seventh and eighth cases were rather involved with each other. One might argue they were the same."

"After we grabbed him," Lestrade explained, "we thought we just might stick around a bit and sure enough, he was trying to escape from the asylum."

"Amazing." Watson summarized.

"I'll say." Lestrade took another drink. "What are we supposed to do in the meantime while you set yourself up for this lunatic?"

"Do?" Holmes echoed. Again that smile played at his mouth. "For now, nothing. We are to retire to a pleasant country inn and rest before the next stage of the game."

It was strange, Lestrade mused, that for a man who did so little lying, Holmes was still one of the last people he'd turn his back on.


	8. Shivering Stakeout

Years later, Martin Lestrade would be rooting about in his father's massive collection of papers, ledgers, journals, and curios, and momentarily detour to peruse a small, much battered little notebook.

_Dec. 23rd. Two more days before Christmas. Managed to reach the inn without further incident but how Mr. Holmes managed to stay alive for three years by himself while running across the globe…_(three sentences violently crossed out)

_…Watson in a fine mood, possibly because he did a Good Deed and faced down a car full of angry labourers trying to get home as soon as possible, even if they had to trample women and children to do it. I don't like his cough. There's no warning, and then suddenly he goes off like Krakatoa. Holmes seems worried about him. I suppose he has that capacity within his chest somewhere…_

_Inn in decent shape, but naming it the Marsh Swan is hardly what I'd call a stroke of genius. Portraits of swans were all over the walls. _

_Mr. H ordered dinner for all of us—I suppose he realized if he didn't, Watson would take charge and choose something designed to put meat on his bones. It was a very ordinary dish of kedgeree, but there is nothing ordinary about having dinner with H. He instantly noticed the unusual quality of the dinnerware, and asked about it. Turns out the Inn-keepers adore swans so much they collect the egg-shells after the hatch and put them in the batch of clay they fire for their dishes, which made the ceramic lighter than normal. H. of course was thrilled and we were treated to a deathless discussion on the influence of calcium in ceramics throughout the course of the meal. Tavern keeper threw in extra bottle of wine, gratis._

_Wine had a swan painted on the bottle. Refused to ask what the name was. Fairly certain it involves swans._

_Rooms have framed portraits of swans on walls._

_In lieu of floral bouquets, there is a vase of curled and dyed swan feathers._

_Coverlet of bed making Watson sneeze. I for one, suspect it is packed with swandown. Note: Watson does not like to make bets while in a certain frame of mind._

_H. completely ignorant of our idle chatter. He pulled out his pipe within five seconds of dropping his bag, inspecting his supply of collars and cuffs, and is now tinting everything within the room with a grey fog. He has been smoking for less than ten minutes, and I feel as though we took London to the country with us._

_(later) Would rather be with Clea and the childer, even with Mrs. Masters under the same roof. At least I could keep my eye on her._

_Bathtub has tiles with swans and rushes._

_Holmes requires exactly six minutes to be completely prepared to head out door. His argument depends on the availability of clean collar and cuffs._

_Couldn't avoid seeing he has twelve pairs of each._

_Watson packs for minimalism and open warfare, and without a preference for either._

_Swans are vile._

_Lined up arrest warrant, derbies, iron, truncheon, and thickest sweater. Probably will not be prepared for whatever will happen; past experience with Holmes proves that. Can at least prepare for what I'm capable of._

-

Three hours before dawn, Holmes, who hadn't gone to sleep (and Lestrade had just barely because of the smoke in the room), roused them all up with a brisk snap of joints and admonishments.

"If we're going out in _that_, Holmes," Watson did not hide his horrified expression out the window, "we must have something to eat first."

"I told Mr. Anderson _you_ might require something." Holmes had donned his clean collar and cuffs, and was lacing up his shoes while Lestrade thought longingly of coffee. Soon enough, the 'something' arrived in the form of thick barley porridge straight off the boil. Hard-earned wisdom prompted them to eat what they could while Holmes flitted back and forth like a grasshopper, collecting strange paraphernalia.

"What do you think?"

Lestrade took in the sight of the detective, adorned with a battered waistcoat stitched with countless pockets, a ratty dust-coat, leggings, shoes that had lost their waterproofing several decades ago, and a bamboo-framed long-handled net. Two different sorts of spectacles hung off his coat by pins, and his wool gloves were moth-eaten.

"You look like a deranged ornithologist." Watson said.

"Excellent." Holmes huffed his satisfaction. "And a deranged one I shall be—if not a disgracefully overconfident one."

_Domine Dirige Nos_, Lestrade prayed the motto of the Metro. _Lord, Direct us._ It was the only prayer he could give with any degree of righteousness.

-

This early in the morning, even the cold had trouble waking them up. Watson coughed only once, mercifully, and Lestrade held the small dark lantern as Holmes led them down the road and across a frozen wasteland. Ice broke under their feet like dry kindling. All three men were grateful for their walking-sticks. The frozen reeds burst into freezing mists of powdered crystals at every foot-step. Lestrade was ferociously glad for his knee-length coat, and slightly stunned that Holmes would be wearing such inadequate clothing for himself.

Several birds, mostly the little wrens and a few sparrows, took offense at their journey. They were the only signs of life for nearly two miles of icy walking. An owl complained several times—Lestrade sympathized. They circled around large white frozen lumps of what looked like turf or hummocks. In the bad light only a vague size and shape could be discerned. By degrees, another shape loomed up, its outline defined by the way it was blocking out the starlight.

"Here we are." Holmes suddenly stopped before an old hunting-shack that should have been consigned to the pyre long ago. "We have his Lordship's permission to bide our time here. Watson, have you your service revolver?"

"Of course, Holmes."

_If I were Watson, I'd never be without it_! Lestrade thought emotionally.

"Excellent. I suggest the two of you make yourselves comfortable." Without the least bit of mockery, Holmes opened the door with a creak. "Keep your wits about you; if all goes well, you should see me with my quarry within the next six hours."

-

"Six hours." Watson growled under his breath. The hunting-shack had not improved in the thin grey light of dawn. It would appear the local rodent population used its dubious shelter as a stopping-over point, but not as a place to linger. Moss climbed up the inside of more than one corner. There were several barn-swallow nests in the narrow eaves.

Lestrade let the man grumble. He was entitled. The Yarder knelt cautiously on the floor (which was a bitterly cold example of hammered earth and a few of the area's stingy grey rocks). A bit of work and the small lantern was settled between them, producing a small but steadily reassuring stream of heat.

The wind picked up and rattled the shaky walls. Lestrade abruptly sneezed as an icy thorn of air stabbed his face. He slumped against the wall without thinking; a rotten moan of nails and decaying wood sounded and a narrow triangle of wood simply parted ways with the rest of the plank to clatter down. A chill breeze slipped through the new opening.

"Be careful, Lestrade." Watson said darkly. "We wouldn't want to let the cold out of here."

Lestrade snorted. "Quite true." They held their hands over the dark lantern, soaking in the throb of steady heat coming up. Dawn had officially arrived a half-hour ago, but it was anyone's guess as to whether or not it would improve their outlook.

"Are those swans?" Watson peered hard at the one window of the shack. The glass had miraculously survived all other assaults, and the doctor had managed to wipe a tiny patch of grime off..

Lestrade pulled out his spyglass from his pocket. "No, those are geese. Abnormally large ones, I'll grant you…"

"Those are _geese_?" Watson borrowed the glass for his own satisfaction. "My God!" His breath steamed in the air.

"Raised for their livers, I'll wager. That's why I can't eat _pate de fois gras_, actually." Lestrade agreed with him.

"Where are the _swans_, if those are the _geese_?"

"Probably in another pool. They're territorial terrors, let me tell you." _Christmas is coming…the goose **has** gotten fat_…Lestrade took in the massive white mounds floating with bulbous threatening majesty on the pool, and wondered if he was going to come out of this unscathed. Geese were horror enough; forget watch-dogs. _No one_ could get past a goose that thought he owned the property. While they couldn't shred you like a dog, lacking anything like teeth, they could still flog you black and blue with their wings, and those large beaks not only grabbed up in painful pinches, they twisted when they pinched.

_This is Holmes' case, so…I'm probably **not** going to be unscathed. I'm just the authorized bearer of the Derbies and the carrier of the arrest warrant…_

Watson was pounding him on the shoulder. "Lestrade!" He hissed.

"Ow! What?"

"I think I found the swans." Watson was staring out a gaping crack in the wall.

Heart sinking, Lestrade looked through the hole. "Heavens. I thought those were snow-capped boulders." Another thought came to him with a sub-Arctic chill. "We walked right past them. My God."

"How are we going to get out of here?" Watson wanted to know. Outside, the sounds of unhappy, complaining waterfowl were shifting and hovering in the air.

"That's an _excellent_ question, doctor. I'm sorry I don't have an excellent answer for you."

"I'd be satisfied with a poor answer at this moment." Watson scowled. "I'm not stepping foot out where they can see us," he announced.

"You always struck me as a fairly intelligent man." Lestrade sighed and held his hands over the small lamp to warm them.

"Is it true, do you think, that they have no natural enemies once they reach maturity?"

"I can't think of anything that would want to tackle them." Lestrade shuddered. "I counted seven."

"There's five more on the other side." Watson was very quiet for a moment while the cold wind whistled past the little shack. "I suppose it _could_ be worse." He said at last.

"Explain to me how it can be worse than the two of us skulking in a ruined hunting-shack, trapped by a combined five hundred and forty-some pounds of vicious waterfowl with a sense of entitlement (which we are probably not allowed to kill on pain of Crown law), while waiting for Mr. Holmes to drive _his_ bird to us, in a freezing day in the most misbegotten marsh in England." Lestrade breathed in for air at this end of this. "Watson. Give me something for perspective."

"Prehistoric swans were the size of dwarf elephants." Watson said after a very long period of thought.

"If they were _that_ bloomin' big, how did they get extinct?" Lestrade wanted to know. Outside the shack, large cobs were ambling their suspicious way closer to the shack. One, the undoubted patriarch of the group, was a virtual head and shoulders above the rest. Wicked, beady little black eyes gleamed evilly, and a smooth black beak clacked together as if he were smacking his lips in anticipation of a good meal of human flesh. "Unless our ancestors decided it would take a combined effort to free the world from a plague?"

"You _really_ don't like swans, do you?" Watson said in wonder.

"What's to _like_ about them, Watson?" Lestrade glared at the white monstrosities waddling around the window, burying himself even deeper inside his coat. "Even the Biblical Deluge didn't get rid of them…I'm sure they just floated about and ate seaweed until the land reappeared."

"Well, they're the traditional symbol for fidelity and constancy…they're beautiful and graceful…" Watson paused to cough slightly into his muffler. "protective of their young…"

"They're vicious killers." Lestrade said flatly. "They'll drown anything that enters their territory, they attack children—can easily kill them and don't tell me it never happened—one swipe of those bloody great wings can break a grown man's arm, and they hate everything! They'll not just bite the hand that feeds them, doctor. They'll also flog that hand off and feed it to the fish!" He shivered and huddled deeper inside his muffler. "_They're evil, John_! Do you have any idea how many times during the course of the calendar year the Yard gets an angry letter demanding we _arrest_ the swans at the parks for disturbing the peace?" He agitated the air with his hands. "John, we had a case where a cob flew in from God Knows Where, and plopped right into the pool at the zoo where the brown bear liked to swim. _The brown bear, John!_ It had bruin completely cowed in ten minutes!"

"And we're not allowed to kill them." Watson sighed. "Why doesn't the Palace collect more of them and serve them up?"

"Probably the Princess Alexandria. _She_ likes those things." Lestrade shivered. With the sun, the wind was picking up. "All right. Nothing for it. We're just going to have to keep our eyes peeled and wait for Mr. Holmes. What do you think he's going to do to bring his overgrown monster to us?"

Watson sighed. "He's probably going to use himself." He said reluctantly. "Holmes said something last night after you'd fallen asleep that Jackson always selected remote places to commit his crimes."

"Well he tried to. That didn't always happen. That's where red-hot pokers and broken doors tended to come in." Lestrade shrugged that off. "Oh, Lord. Let me guess. He's going to play the part of some sort of barmy bird-scientist or somesuch, and let it slip that he kills and collects specimens? That's a guarantee to send Jackson over the edge!"

"And his true quarry, the swan custodian, has never been left alone ever since De Lessups recognized him." Watson filled in. "He must be half mad with frustration by now."

"Only half-mad? I'm shocked. Thought writers had a better grip on language than that." Lestrade breathed into his hands. "All right then. You watch the window. I'll…ah…try to watch through the open crack on the other side." A swan peered back at him through that opening. A low hiss escaped its snakelike throat. Lestrade swallowed hard.


	9. Not so easy, Reports

Lestrade's report:

_Name: __Detective-Inspector G. Lestrade of Division A, Whitehall__, was called into a contracted case at the behest of Sherlock Holmes, Private Consulting Detective, on behalf of his client, His Grace Lord Nabal De Lessups. (Case details attached). After De Lessups positively identified the new volunteer worker for his Swan Reclamation Programme, he sent for Mr. Holmes in the belief that Mr. Holmes would be able to handle the case discreetly—_

"Damn and blast!" Lestrade swore not less than five minutes later, as he aggressively crossed out the last three sentences on his report-form. "That doesn't make any bit of sense!"

Watson looked back at him from his good eye. The other was still underneath a cold compress to keep the swelling down. "It can't be that bad," he pointed out with all the reasonableness that came with rank innocence. He winced slightly as the Black Maria lurched them slightly to one side.

Underneath Lestrade, a semi-conscious Constantin Jackson moaned. "Shut it!" Lestrade snapped.

"Perhaps you shouldn't be using him as a settee," Watson suggested. "I don't think you really have to."

"No, I think I do. I really think I do." Lestrade shot back. "And as to the earlier topic, yes, it is that bad. It is every bit that bad." To prove his point, he shoved the battered report-paper under Watson's nose.

The doctor gamely squinted, and managed to make out several details in beams of sunlight coming through the bars. "Ah," he said at last. "I see what your problem is." Slowly, he pulled out his own pencil. "You're trying to tell them the truth."

"Forgive me for sounding trite, but that is part of my job." Lestrade sank his chin into his hand. Beneath him Jackson had subsided—he might as well, what with Lestrade's Derbies on his wrists and Holmes' nickel-plated spring cuffs were about his ankles. And Watson's unknown sedative in his blood-vessels...

"Let's see if we can't make this more believable." Watson touched the tip of his pencil to his tongue. "_Mr. Holmes donned the disguise of a, ornithologist—"_

"A completely batty one," Lestrade put in.

"When you think about it, most of his disguises are batty." Watson explained patiently. "That makes them all the more believable."

"What the devil is your reasoning for that?" Lestrade rubbed at his aching head, neck, and finally his jaw where he'd connected with the heavy ring on Jackson's fist in a poignant way.

"Because, who in their right mind would do this? People decide he's the genuine article as soon as they put eyes on him." Watson shrugged. "_ornithologist…and concocted a story about an injured swan to Mr. Jackson. Mr. Jackson agreed to follow Holmes to the rendezvous, where myself and Dr. Watson were waiting."_

"Don't stop now, doctor." Lestrade pressed. "You're sounding quite believable."

"That's because I haven't come to the challenging part yet." Watson sighed.

"How about…"_ '—Mr. Jackson, whose mental condition is a matter of record, was distracted by the condition of the swans…"_

-

"Come here, my gels!" Jackson's voice boomed like the poetic bittern across the frozen marsh. Startled crows took to the air as he lifted arms like ship-beams.

Much to everyone's surprise (save Jackson, who was insane), the gigantic mountains of bird sat up on their skinny legs and waddled their large, black feet toward him with their heads down and hissing. Even Holmes looked taken aback.

"Well of course he's got them trained." Lestrade muttered. "My day has improved."

"Food for the gels!" The big hand swooped and produced a rain of mixed corn. The progressive waddle became a ponderous stampede. Holmes backed off to the side. Long, evil necks arched up and down, bobbing like fishing-floats in the air as they gobbled the grains. "Margaret…where's Margaret?"

"Perhaps that is the injured one?" Holmes offered.

"We've got to find Margaret." Jackson pouted—not unlike a child. "Margaret!" He hooted. "Come here, gel!" He cupped his hands to his mouth and a sound not unlike a French horn erupted.

Holmes cringed to his very spine; Lestrade filed that note (literally) away for later when the piston whistles lost their novelty.

"Where is Margaret, blast it?" Watson hissed.

Lestrade tapped him on the shoulder. "Look behind you." He whispered.

Watson complied. He met the evil black eyes of the cobb that had been staring through the slat at Lestrade for the past half-hour. "That's no _Margaret_," Watson protested.

"Watson, we _have_ established Jackson is insane..?" Lestrade spoke as quietly as humanly possible. Outside, the madman was calling for 'Margaret' in increasingly loud, upset tones. "I think he's coming this way!"

Watson met the news admirably. He pulled out his Adams.

"Margaret!" Jackson hooted. "Margaret-gel! I have some nice rye and barley!"

Margaret already knew what he wanted to eat. It was detective sauced with a civilian.

-

"How about…" Watson hesitated. "We say…'during the distraction, Mr. Jackson was overpowered?"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Outrageous." He retorted. "It doesn't take _half an hour_ to 'overpower' a distracted lunatic."

Watson frowned at the paper. "Granted I'm reading and writing with only one eye, Lestrade, but is there any place in this report that says how long the apprehension took?"

"So we're playing around with time now?" Lestrade scowled. "Lovely."

"It comes in handy when you're protecting someone's identity." Watson pointed out. "I couldn't have written The Valley of Fear otherwise."

"I learn something new every day." Lestrade fumbled in his pockets for a small paper packet. He poured the anodyne-powder straight into his mouth and chased it down with his flask.

-

"Margaret!"

The cob erupted into a Divine Wind of feather and muscle as it circled the shack and headed straight for Holmes; Jackson turned to see the flash of Derbies in Holmes' hand. The detective, points to him, had excellent reflexes and Jackson's paw met empty space.

"The Mulligan's on!" Lestrade exclaimed.

Watson kicked the door open—it vaporized into splinters—and took off pell-mell to save Holmes.

"Stop, Jackson!" Watson had already leveled his gun but the madman had been effectively blockaded by a wall of feeding birds. As if they were of one mind, a forest of tiny white heads on long white necks telescoped up and what happened next could be described as an aggressive dispersal. Before the curtain of large white objects had cleared, Jackson had managed to get to Watson's side and struck the gun out of his hand, the other hand grabbing the doctor by the throat.

_I'm going to roast for this one_, Lestrade had time to think, before he cupped his hands and whistled. Constantin Jackson's entire body spun like a giant top; his face creased like a knife-mark into leather as he realized who was behind him.

"Hello there, Jackson!" Lestrade bellowed in the most irritating voice he could master—and he'd been cultivating the art all his life. "Remember me?" He pitched his voice to the volume normally used when scolding Constables: "Today's special at the Lancashire-Rose: **Chicken**!"

The madman took in the sight of his hated foe. A bellow that Watson later described as a bull elephant the Queen's Army had to shoot for going berserk escaped his large mouth.

Lestrade ran like the dickens.

"Watson!" Holmes paused to yank the doctor to his feet. Watson was coughing worse than ever, but he was alive and no worse for the wear.

"Lestrade!" Watson wheezed. "That madman is after him!"

Holmes blanched. When Watson was down, all other thoughts had fled. He looked about; the marsh had swallowed up both men.

"My god!" Watson breathed. "The man's insane!"

"Yes, I _know_ that, Watson, but we need to find him before he murders Lestrade!"

Watson hadn't been talking about _Jackson_. He postponed the explanation for later. In one move he had checked his fallen gun and the two were pelting into the broken wall of ice.

-

"By the by," Lestrade cleared his throat, "How was it you managed to survive that massive hand about your neck anyway?"

Watson pointed to his neck, which was not exactly skinny. "You're be surprised how many times someone tries that on you on the ball-field." He said succintly.

"What do you do, flex your neck muscles?"

"Something like that," Watson grinned. "And a punch to the nerves in his wrist somewhat lowered his gripping power." He frowned suddenly. "So, what happened? All Holmes and I could see was a great white forest of frozen reeds. How did he catch up with you so quickly?"

Lestrade was exasperated. "Watson," he said through his teeth, "I'm a city-sparrow. I don't do well in wide open spaces, much less when there's soggy spots, mats of roots, frozen slick puddles--"

"All right, I get your bearings..." Watson scribbled quickly.

-

"Constantin Jackson—" Lestrade blocked the blow with a grunt; he felt the impact from his upper arm to his spine, and he knew he would be feeling it for days afterward—"You are—under—arrest—" He ducked and threw a jab that the madman ducked at the same time, running straight into Holmes' timed right cross. The sound was incredible. Lestrade followed through with a kick that put the toe of his heavy waterproofed boot into the nerve cluster behind Jackson's knee. This sound was even worse. It promised death.

Holmes ducked again—he was quite the flyweight, Lestrade had to admit. Watson limped up and threw his walking-stick to the detective, who caught it easily and promptly demonstrated his training in singlestick.

Jackson roared. Swans swarmed. Lestrade was shocked to see his world abruptly changed to a furious white blizzard and with one pull of the trigger, he managed to fulfill the Policeman's Dream. The swan fell dead at his feet.

And then Jackson went completely, utterly mad.

He moved so quickly Holmes' stick lost its target. With a whirl he lunged for Lestrade, gorilla-arms opened wide for a killing embrace. Watson came out of nowhere and to the detective's shock, stabbed the man in the ribs.

The two collapsed onto the frozen grass, Holmes shouting Watson's name but the doctor was already rolling away from Jackson's limp form.

Lestrade stood without moving, trying to accept the fact that Watson was holding a large syringe, contents empty.

"That's where you've been," He said hoarsely.

Watson panted as he rose to his feet. Holmes was grinning at him with an admiration Lestrade felt, and the amateur even went through the pretense of helping his stand. Watson tolerated it; as forms of affection went, it was probably the safest one for Holmes to enact.

"I'm afraid that was a bit too close to his liver for my liking," he rasped. "It will break down the sedative fairly quickly."

"By then we should have him safely in custody." Holmes assured him. "Lestrade, I think we might require both pairs of--"

"Oh, my God." Lestrade turned pale as the chalk downs. Stretched out before them was a massacre in white.

"Calm down, Inspector." Although Holmes looked a bit taken aback himself. "It's only the mute swans from the Thames that are under Crown possession."

"One…two…three…" Watson counted. "F—no, that one's just been winged…"

"What are we going to do about this?" Lestrade groaned. "They were still under his Lordship's care."

"I'll see to it." Holmes dismissed the disaster blithely. "For now we need to see about getting Mr. Jackson into the paddy."

"And the swans." Lestrade said gloomily.

"The swans?"

"Might as well make a clean breast of it…"

-

"Evil things." Lestrade grumbled. He was not sorry that one of the three casualties was 'Margaret.' The cob's eyes still shone with some sort of malice from where they'd thrown the corpse into the corner of the Maria.

"At least you have a pardon for killing the swans." Watson pointed out.

"I only claim responsibility for one of them!" Lestrade exclaimed. "There wasn't a single mark on the other two. I don't even know what could have killed those."

Watson wordlessly pointed. Lestrade reluctantly looked. The crop side for the swans were grossly distended. From here it looked rather like they had tumors.

"Oh." Lestrade muttered.

"That," Watson said in his best Doctor-voice, "Is why one must be moderate in one's diet. A lack of restraint at the table can only lead to a premature life span."

"They had _heart attacks._" Lestrade was not ashamed for staring.

"Inspector, they weigh close to four stone! I doubt they could even _fly_!"

"All that effort just for _pate_..." Lestrade groaned.

Watson suddenly broke into one of his rare smiles. "Well, Lestrade, the case is concluded, you have just enough time to get home for Christmas, and all you have to do is turn over Mr. Jackson--again--and figure out what you're going to do with three gigantic birds."

Lestrade closed his eyes and groaned again. "And why is Mr. Holmes not here to give me the usual speech about how I get the credit after he did all the work for the pleasure of the case?"

"Hmn, I'm quite certain he'll reassure us that it was a 'case with some minor points of interest.'" Watson offered. "But other than that...he'll be meeting us at the train-station."

"Why the train-station?"

"Something about collecting a sample of swan-shell pottery at the little curio shop..."


	10. Chapter 10

"By all that is holy," Dr. Watson breathed out with a pleasure that surprised himself as he dropped his luggage to the side and sank to his usual place at the fireplace settee. His slippers had been carelessly left underneath the furniture for some reason; as Holmes tossed his own bags into his bedroom, he had his cold, damp shoes off and his slippers on.

"Just in time for Christmas, eh, Watson?" Holmes asked cheerfully as he rubbed his hands briskly before the flames.

"Mn." Watson grunted. He was so happy to be home he was approaching a state of mind close to somnolence. "Wonderful." He angled so his puffy eye was the one opposite the heat of the flames.

"I wired ahead to Mrs. Hudson to let her know we would be available for the holiday after all," the detective settled to his usual comfortable chair, with every bit as much enjoyment as his fellow lodger. One long hand reached for the Persian slipper with a contentment Watson found catlike, but quickly froze when the door opened to a quick knocking and the woman in question entered with a tray.

"You're quite fortunate I hadn't finished my baking for the church, gentlemen," the woman informed them with a smile. "The ovens were still quite warm."

"Oh…thank you, Mr. Hudson." Watson breathed, and although he didn't want to move, he took the tray from her hands with a smile. She beamed at him, and shut the door behind herself discretely.

Watson lifted the lid and breathed in the bliss of a good, solid dish of pot pie that smelled of leeks and paprika and cubes of lean pork. "Ovens warm, my eye. She had this prepared for us just in case."

"What makes you so certain, Watson?" Holmes' lips twitched.

Watson snorted. "My dear fellow, I may not be a Great Detective, but I am a fair observer of women." The older man lifted his eyebrows in a slightly mischievous expression. "And it is late in the month."

"And what would that have to do with the price of tea, Watson?" There was no doubt; Holmes was smiling broadly as he packed tobacco out of the slipper and into his large pipe.

"We pay our rent next week. What with the usual drains of the festivities…well, my mother often served a pot pie at the end of the month when expenses were drawn. It needs a modicum of ingredients after all, and enough lard to make a crust."

"Admirable, Watson." Holmes rose to his feet and tossed his match to the flames. "It does make one wonder what will be on the menu tomorrow."

-

Andrew Cheatham responded to stress badly. With his wife's former guardian wrecking her draconian havoc upon the world, he felt entitled to escape for a moment--just a moment--and dig up some sort of reassurance in the kitchen. The fine wines, dark beers and brandies were out of the question. One needed to have one's wits _absolutely _sharp around Mrs. Masters.

He had been openly helping himself to food in pantry when something large made a sound like a bag of burlap against the outer door. The big man frowned to himself, and brushed crumbs off his shirt-front as he went to the knob.

"Andrew--!" Geoffrey Lestrade swayed slightly in the doorway. He looked to have been in _another _fight. "Just the man I wanted to see."

Andrew doubted _that_, but there was a possibility his brother in law was concussed. It had happened before. He gaped at his sister's husband. "What in the name of God happened to you?" He wanted to know. "_Again_?"

"What do you mean, 'again?'" Lestrade sniffed, and drew himself up to his entire five-foot seven inch height. "I'll have you know, you fop, I have _never_ once had the same disaster befall me twice."

"This is true." Andrew dubiously crossed his arms over his broad chest. He looked Lestrade up and down--mostly down--from his six-foot, five inch altitude. "What is it? Lestrade...are you drunk? Don't you want to warn my sister you're coming in?"

"What, looking like this?" Lestrade pointed to himself. "No, I'm not drunk, I've been on the g-- d----d Western Train Line since the Dawn Chorus, and--I'll have you know, you overdressed twit--It's about _Clea _we're talking about. What's her state of mind?"

"Exactly what one would guess from a holiday with my mother-in-law under the same roof." Andrew said darkly.

"You know she's not really your mother-in-law, just her former legal guardian."

Andrew sighed. "Do you mind? You're only giving me a false sense of hope that the woman will go away someday." He reached in his pocket for a perfumed cigarillo. "It's good to see you, though."

"You're joking." Lestrade said automatically.

"No, no, I'm serious. As soon as _you _walk into the room, Mrs. Masters forgets there's any other target for her arrers. Believe me, we're all grateful that she despises you so wholeheartedly."

Lestrade sighed. "That's more like it," he nodded. "I was starting to get a little worried at your Holiday charity." He chafed his gloved hands against the cold. "Well, since I never could get enough evidence to have her put behind bars where she belongs—"

"That's because you were trying to put her in gaol, not a zoo." Andrew broke in snidely.

"_Point to Cheatham_," Lestrade conceded. "T_he fact is_, with a bit of help, we can serve her up a dish of crow for the holiday." The small man drew out his sentence like a fishing-line.

Andrew was dubious indeed, but willing to carry the flame of hope. Lestrade saw it flare up in his dark blue eyes.

"This isn't going to be complicated, is it?" He worried.

Lestrade grinned. "No, not at all."

-

Christmas morning burned bright and clear. The stacks had shut down for the precious few hours that would let people see snow without grey ash, yellow coal-smears, and black cinders.

The cold was incredible. After the marshes, Watson was frankly astonished. He bundled up in his extra-warm flannels and found a second pair of stockings before going downstairs. Being above the fire in the sitting-room, he knew it would be a bit cooler once he came down.

The doctor quickly saw to the fire, noting that Holmes' door was still shut, and went to the small window. He wiped the glass with his sleeve until the layer of frost peeled away and let him see out. Swarms of small children were racing up and down the white-carpeted cobblestones as if their very lives depended on it. He smiled at the sight. One of the constables was strolling down, in that slow, deliberate tread that is only possible when one is wrapped in thick layers of wool, shackled by enormous boots, and capped with a heavy metal helmet. He saw movement at the 221B Baker street window and lifted his hand in a greeting. Watson gave him a smiling hello back.

"You look quite invigorated, Watson," Holmes said from behind him.

Watson turned to find the detective, dressed as warmly as himself, sitting down with one leg curled underneath as he collected the dottles and bits from the previous day's smoking. The first pipe in the morning was always the worst. Watson bore it patiently.

"Nothing like the ease of one's bed, Holmes." Watson sighed as he stretched his feet before the flames. "Can you hear how quiet it is?" He tucked his hands deep inside his pockets, eyes closing in his own private joy.

Holmes silently counted the seconds.

Watson opened his eyes at fifteen. "I wonder if they'll be able to keep Jackson this time."

"One can only hope so." Holmes answered fervently. "He is _quite_ a unique example of an unbalanced mind. With relief he touched a flame to his pipe and pulled hard. "As I said, it was of some interest. I felt Mr. Lestrade should be a part of it considering his past history with the man."

"I don't think he regretted it," Watson said with feeling. "And his Lordship was rather financially generous to all three of us."

Holmes grinned, his teeth latched about the stem of his pipe. "Rather more to Lestrade…giving him those swans."

"I don't know how he's going to eat all three," Watson protested. "I still say that was a bit of a cruel trick, Holmes. Lestrade _loathes_ swans."

"So I noticed during that little affair at the park." Holmes was as imperturbable as an invisible owl. "But he does mind his manners around the peerage, and he wouldn't be so rude as to refuse his Lordship's generosity."

Watson shook his head chidingly. "Do you know, when the _rajah _wants to destroy someone, he gives the person the gift of a white elephant?"

"I believe I've heard the story, Watson. The white elephant is a rare and precious object, valuable and beyond compare…but it is also deuced hard to take care of, and just feeding it from day to day will shatter even the staunchest man's budget."

"Yes. Why am I thinking of white elephants right now?" Watson muttered, looking straight at Holmes.

Holmes shrugged it off. "He may not be imaginative, but Lestrade _does_ possess some knack for being resourceful."

Watson shook his head and made himself as comfortable as humanly possible at his settee. Holmes, for his part, was soon engrossed in catching up with all the newspapers missed in London during their absence.

With the warmth returning to the room, Watson dozed the morning away until Mrs. Hudson announced a hot Christmas feast.

"And I'll have you know, gentlemen," the housekeeper said with a smile, "It's a rare treat we're serving today! A rare treat!"

-

Inspector Bradstreet had to lean against the door and kick it to dislodge a frozen lump of snow underneath the hinge. Gregson puffed as he helped from the other side. When the door managed to slam in the frame, the Constables applauded.

"Thank you, thank you," Bradstreet bowed from the waist. "Anything to report, gentlemen?" The casual question, asked every year, abruptly stopped in his lips. Every Constable present was grinning like someone had locked them into a sweet shop overnight. In the back, the other Inspectors that had beaten them there, Youghal, Morton, Hopkins and Parson, were grinning just as smugly.

Bradstreet lifted his head and sniffed. "My word, what smells so good?" He wondered. "Did someone bring in a goose?"

"Got a package from Lestrade, sir." PC Church beamed. "He sends his regards, and his regrets that he won't be able to attend. The package is to be shared equally to all, and to save some for the ones that are on duty today."

Gregson blinked. "That must be quite a large package." He observed.

For some reason, that put the office into a spate of hysterics.

"It's a goose, isn't it?" Bradstreet frowned, puzzled. "Isn't it? It smells like roasted goose with sage and walnut trimmings."

"Oh, it's goose, Inspectors." Youghal had a smile like a carved jacky-lantern on his smooth face. "Gunnysack goose, sir. The Inspector especially requested that all PCs who patrol the parks and water-ways this year have the first go at it."

-

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"Just a splash more, Clea."

Clea Cheatham Lestrade chuckled as she did as directed. "There. One splash more, luv." She set the lid tightly over the large rommertopf and tucked the large clay pot into the bake-oven. She was still beaming as she smoothed her skirts. "In less than an hour, you'll be the new hero of the Cheatham House."

"I don't know about that, ma-mel," Lestrade began. He was propped up with his back against the wall of the kitchen, lounging on the plank bench the servants normally used for their meals. A bottle of fairly decent wine was in one hand; his father in law had been pouring it into him for a good half-hour now.

"Yes, you are." Charles Cheatham rumbled with all the fervor of a mostly formant volcano. Although the man was stone-blind from cataracts, he was still disgustingly coordinated enough to tip the bottle and pour another serving into Lestrade's glass. "For more than one reason, I might add."

Lestrade drifted off to a slightly alcoholic haze. Hmn?" He wondered belatedly.

"Well, first, for managing to get back to the family for the holidays," Charles Cheatham slapped his diminutive son-in-law on the back; wine splashed on the floor. His assisting dog was only too happy to tend to it. "Secondly," he added while Lestrade still tried to find his breath, "you supplied one bloomin' glorious feast."

"I think you've drunk more than I have." Lestrade mumbled.

"Prolly. I'm old. I'm entitled." The patriarch was unperturbed. "And then you gave my daughter the cooking challenge of her life entire—legally, I might add. I mean, we would have covered for you if you'd brought home a swan illegally…"

"Ah, thanks but no thanks…"

"_And you showed up that awful widow_!" Cheatham finished with a shout that would have vibrated the cobwebs off the rafters, had they existed. "Sent her back home to skulk—where she belongs with her greasy fat cook! As if being a _baronet _is all that much to be proud of…much less being the cook for one..."

"And the best part's to come." Clea strolled over, parted the wine from her father's hand, and poured herself a glass with her husband's unsteady help. "Swan liver terrene. Won't _that_ be something to talk about, served with barley-grain and gravy!"

"What are you going to do with the rest of them?" Charles Cheatham wondered. "I mean, it was generous to process _all three _of them here for your friends, but you've been up all night..!"

"Actually, it was a little shelfish," Geoffrey, exhausted, bloodshot with purple circles under his eyes, and so tired it was unsure how drunk he was, staggered to his feet, hand on the table-top holding himself up, "Went through the trouble of getting that looney back, was kind enough to be paid in swan, thought might as well make use of it. Mrs. Elizabeth is going to have one ruddy good time stuffing her quilts with swandown this year…" He took another drink; Clea smiled and put her arm around him. "And those _wings_…you tell me your grandsons won't enjoy wearing those giant wings the next time the priest wants them to play the part of some angel in the next play."

"You're right about that," Clea giggled. "We'll leave it to Elizabeth to puzzle out the wires and preserving and such."

"And we got out of Hogmanay," Lestrade marveled. "That's the fourth time in almost thirty years I've gotten out of Bradstreet's wretched Hogmanay. An' all I had to do was chase a madman into a frozen swamp."

"Miracles are for Christmas." Clea toasted her husband with her glass.


End file.
